


devils and dust

by myotinae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, M/M, Past Anders/Karl Thekla - Freeform, Unhealthy Relationships, implied alcohol abuse, post-mage sympathiser ending, the opposite of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7428334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myotinae/pseuds/myotinae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders and Hawke in the wilderness, after Kirkwall. Things never turn out as good as you want. (Or: the worst camping trip ever, Justice style.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	devils and dust

_A letter to Varric Tethras, Kirkwall, delivered by anonymous courier, return address: ‘G.H.’:_

Varric,

Hope this finds you! These hooded courier types claim to be trustworthy but one never knows about people who’re that invested in looking mysterious. Heard Kirkwall’s reparations are going well but very little else from civilisation. Good thing you got back to the city when you did; mage rebellion types either very nice to us or keep trying to kill A in his sleep (sometimes both at same time, which is awkward). All well otherwise!

Have no real news, unless you’re desperate to hear about mage in-fighting -- I certainly wasn’t so will spare you. Bethany sends her love. Did get the copy of your book you sent, although not very far into it yet. Very exciting so far. Main character extraordinarily dashing and brilliant, of course.

Hope you can write back. _Allegedly_ there is a woman by the name of Feanna who hangs out by the Lowtown docks who can get things back to me. She’s meant to be the one who’ll do the last leg of delivering this, so presumably if this arrives then sending things the other way back will be reliable. Fingers crossed!

Give Bianca a kiss from me,

H

  


* * *

  


Being on the run with Hawke turns sour sooner than Anders expects, once the others are gone.

He supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised, but it felt different as a group, even when half of them weren’t exactly _pleased_ that he was there. (And that, well -- he expected no less from Fenris or Aveline, of course, but Bethany and Varric’s barely contained disgust made Anders’ chest hurt whenever he thought about it too long.) Hawke naturally spent most of his time playing leader, frowning at maps and talking logistics with Aveline or rumours of mage groups with Bethany or Merrill; but he was still there to toss out awful jokes when conversations grew too heated, there to brush shoulders with Anders at dinner and to sleep in the same tent, even with his mabari between them. But of course, as news of Kirkwall’s reconstruction filtered back to them, the group dissolved in twos and threes; and as they left Hawke seemed to drift away too, growing sharp and cold.

By the time all but Bethany have left, they’d fallen in with a small group of mages from Ostwick, mostly ex-Circle types, and Anders throws himself into discussion with them as much as possible. More often than not, “discussion” turns into shouting matches with the mouthiest of them, an younger apostate who’d fled north from the Highever alienage during the Blight; but even though he’s _wrong_ , and it drives Anders to a fury that no one else seems to see this, at least stewing over how exactly he’s going to _explain_ to Torin how wrong he is distracts him from thinking about what’s going on with Hawke, or Kirkwall, or anything else.

“He’s just so _stubborn_ ,” Anders grouses to Hawke one evening, prodding another log into the campfire with the end of his staff. “And _conservative._ He’s a life-long apostate who talks like a seventy-year-old Aequitarian! I can’t believe anyone listens to that!”

“Bethany likes him,” says Hawke mildly, looking up from his book.

“Bethany likes everyone,” says Anders, and then adds, on reflection, “Except me.” It comes out more bitterly than he intends it to.

There’s a pause from Hawke, and then a sigh, and Anders’ jaw sets with irritation in anticipation of whatever’s to follow. “Don’t be ridiculous, Anders,” Hawke says, finally, in his _placating_ voice, which Anders has really heard _far_ too much of lately.

“I’m not _ridiculous_.”

“It’s just a turn of phrase,” says Hawke. “Maker’s breath-”

“ _What?_ ” Anders snaps, turning all the way round.

Hawke looks away from him. “Never mind,” he says, and stands, brushes the dirt off the seat of his trousers. “I’m going to go check on the others. Come find me when the mutton’s cooked.” 

  


* * *

  


The last time they’d been together properly had been months before everything ended in Kirkwall. Anders’ memory of it is foggy, shifting -- he’d been in the Hanged Man on a stormy night with Varric and Isabela, trying to escape the stone pit in his stomach by getting progressively drunker and worse at Diamondback than he could have dreamed possible -- but he remembers Hawke striding in from the tempest like some kind of heathen god, wrapping broad arms around Anders’ shoulders and pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hair and beard soaked and dripping with rainwater, like they were the only ones in the room. He remembers Hawke murmuring, “I was looking for you,” into his ear; and between the way Hawke was looking at him and the whisky warm in his gut it suddenly seemed to Anders for the first time in ages that there was no reason to fear the future.

There had been chatter, extensive teasing from Isabela and Varric, probably a sad attempt to finish the round of cards; Hawke asking, “I thought Justice didn’t like you to drink?” as he stole Anders’ last double and Anders explaining that once he got _started_ it didn’t matter what the spirit in his head thought about it at all.

And then it had been just them, in a hastily rented room upstairs, Hawke’s sopping armor left in a puddle by the door. And, okay, so the _sex_ part of it was more along the lines of sloppy kisses and grinding hips, and Anders was never able to remember if either of them even finished, and the shitty little room lost its romance in the morning when the hangover kicked in and it became clear that Hawke had mainly rented it to avoid going back out into the storm. But it had been _good_ , that time.

(And maybe there had been other times, after that, that had been perfunctory, or desperate, with _I won’t forget you blackmailed me_ ringing in Anders’ ears; but they feel like they happened to someone else, long ago.)

  


* * *

  


“Eating like this reminds me of when we were little,” Bethany says fondly to Hawke over dinner, sitting next to Torin-the-arsehole-elf; the rest of the group are at the larger campsite on the other side of the camp. “When we left Amaranthine.”

Hawke laughs. “You know, you’ve never said anything nice about that trip in your life? You used to cry every time anyone _mentioned_ Amaranthine.”

“Well, I felt bad that we had to leave. And I was scared the templars would get Father and it’d be my fault.”

“Bethany, it wasn’t-”

“I _know_ that, Maker, we’ve had this conversation a million times.” She tugs at a wayward curl of hair, thoughtfully. “I just meant to say that despite all that other stuff, it was exciting, having wild game all the time. Father always looked so pleased with himself and his singed rabbits. And campfires. We’d never had a campfire before.”

“I thought you were a Lothering girl,” Torin interrupts from the other side of her, and Anders tries not to scowl when Bethany turns warmly to him with a smile.

“More or less. Our parents moved around a lot when my brother was young, but Carver and I were born in the northeast. We didn’t actually move to Lothering until my magic showed up, but it was home for me.”

Her smile fades slightly, but then Hawke begins, “Hey, do you remember-” and then they’re off on one of _those_ conversations -- “Oh, when he-” “And Mother just-” “I swear she nearly turned purple-” -- in their own little sibling-world, laughing too hard to finish a sentence. They’d had conversations like this before Bethany had been sent to the Circle, about their father or brother, but they’d been rarer, more somber, at least whenever Anders had been around. Torin catches Anders’ eye from across the fire and rolls his eyes, looking long-suffering, like they have anything in common: _look at what we put up with_.

Anders glowers at him. Then he drops his gaze back down to the skewer of meat he’s been picking at and tries to swallow the jealousy rising in his throat, tries not to let himself think of his mother singing the Chant as she did housework, his father telling him stories about ghosts in the blighted steppes, the flames licking at his heels as he scrambled out of the blazing hayloft...

“And then he just went back out like nothing happened!” Hawke says to Bethany, who is doubled-over at this point.

“Poor Father,” she giggles, wiping at her eyes. “We put him through so much.”

“ _You_ didn’t do anything, it was me and Carver entirely.”

Bethany laughs again. “I’d love to agree, but you never saw how many times I nearly set him on fire.”

The conversation trails off as they turn back, chuckling, to their meals. After a while, Bethany speaks up again: “Brother, erm- I did have to talk to you, actually.”

“Well,” says Hawke after a pause. “ _That’s_ not a terrifying way to bring something up.”

“It’s nothing bad, I promise,” says Bethany hastily. “It’s just that I… well…”

A heavy silence hangs until Hawke says, forcedly jovial: “Don’t say I’m going to be an uncle _already?_ ”

Bethany turns scarlet. “ _What?_ No! Andraste!”

Anders clears his throat uncomfortably, thinking of how _bloody awful_ a baby would be to have around, and interjects, “You’re positive?”

“Maker’s _breath!_ ” Bethany looks around at them, scowling -- and, Anders notices, pointedly not looking at Torin. “Look, I--” She takes a deep breath, looking disgusted. “I have been bleeding for _two days_ , I think I know what’s going on in _that region_.” Anders must have made some sort of face, because she glares at him and adds, “ _You_ asked.”

“What Bethany was _trying_ to say,” Torin cuts in, the tips of his ears flushed pink, “is she wants to stay with… with us. My group. For a while.”

 _Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?_ Anders thinks stupidly in the ensuing silence, until Hawke says, “Without me, you mean.”

Bethany buries her face in her hands. “I just thought… Brother, it’s not _you_. And it’s not like I want to get rid of…”

“Oh,” says Anders, getting it.

“Look, I respect your… ideals,” says Torin flatly to Anders, “but neither of us are ever going to agree with each other. And honestly, you being here puts all of us in danger. Both of you,” he adds, looking at Hawke. “It’s one thing to be mages and another to be mages harbouring the Champion of Kirkwall and the most wanted apostate in Thedas. It honestly isn’t anything personal.”

Hawke should make a joke, Anders thinks, or maybe he should; but at the same time he can feel the familiar rise of cold rage in his chest. He stands up, meaning to leave, but instead says coldly to Torin, “I knew you were a coward, but dragging Bethany of all people along with you is revolting.”

“Anders, stop it,” says Bethany.

“Really, we’re getting into this again?” says Torin, staring icily up at him. “I’m a _coward_ now?”

“Well, I don’t know what else to call your insane conviction that if we just _tried harder_ to _get along with our oppressors_ maybe there wouldn’t have been any problems!”

Torin is on his feet now too. “Oh, right, I’m sorry for thinking there could have been a solution to Kirkwall that wasn’t _murdering the High Cleric_ and nearly getting every mage in the city killed-”

“The problem wasn’t Kirkwall, the problem was the entire Circle! Nothing else could make people realise! And mages like you being willfully blind even now, even when you were never _there_ \-- I can’t believe you’d go along with this, Bethany, he might as well be a templar himself--”

“Anders,” says Hawke, warningly, a hand squeezing Anders’ wrist.

The touch is like a jolt of static, and years ago it might have given him pause, but now he just shakes it off furiously and glares down at Hawke, feeling hurt and betrayed. “I thought _you_ were with me,” he says. “You, after everything, of _all people--_ ”

“I _am_ with you,” says Hawke sharply, “but you need to calm down.”

Which is such _condescending bullshit_ that Anders can barely look at him anymore. He turns back to Bethany. “Fine. Do what you want. It’s none of my business.”

“It really isn’t,” says Bethany, staring into the fire.

“We’ll leave tomorrow, then,” Anders says, and turns to walk back to the tent.

There are voices behind him, hushed. He doesn’t listen to them.

  


* * *

  


_A wax-sealed letter delivered by anonymous courier to unmarked recipient, return address Varric Tethras, Kirkwall:_

Hawke, if I ever hear another word about mage politics I will die on the spot from boredom, I swear. I’m getting so many letters from strangers about it now that I’m almost regretting the book. That’s what I get for _mentioning_ the whole situation. I don’t know how you stand it, I really don’t.

Anyway: weird hooded courier routine seems to have worked out! Have included a letter for Sunshine.

Now that I’m here to actually take a look I can tell you that Kirkwall honestly isn’t that much worse off than it was after the Qunari thing, as long as you ignore the pile of rubble and constant stream of mourners where the Chantry used to be. (I’m told the Gallows had a lot of weeping mothers for a while but without you to drag me there I’m more than happy to stay out of that part of town.) Aveline and her guards might as well be single-handedly running the city -- though she’d be furious if anyone said that to her face, of course -- which is a hell of a lot better than the Meredith years no matter what anyone thinks of Kirkwall’s guardsmen. And Lowtown, being Lowtown, is exactly the same as ever. You know I ran into your uncle the other day? He had some choice words about your personal life but I think he meant to say he wishes you well.

Speaking of, congratulations to Blondie on not being assassinated yet! I called dibs on that, remember.

I’d be offended that you’re blatantly flirting with my woman but honestly you’re the only other man I’d be okay with her settling down with. (This is purely hypothetical and depends on my untimely death, of course.) Bianca sends kisses back anyway, the hussy.

Varric

PS: I knew you’d love the book, you egotistical bastard.

  


* * *

  


 Hawke never comes back to the tent that night, and Anders wakes after a few hours of fitfully dreamless sleep to the sound of Bethany and Hawke talking softly outside.

“I still think we should leave the dog with you, just to make sure everything’s all right.”

“Don’t be stupid,” says Bethany warmly. “He’s a mabari, he’d pine without you. And I really can take care of myself.”

“ _And_ any little Bethanys, I’m sure.”

A thump, which was probably Bethany punching Hawke in the shoulder. “I have never in my life harassed you about your love life so will you _stop it._ ”

“No, but to be fair you did tell Mother about Elegant.”

“That was an accident! She fished it out of me, you know how she is. Was. And I did think you were dating! You said yourself it was ‘complicated’...”

“Yes, but what it boils down to is I had to explain _friends with benefits_ to our _mother_.”

“Well,” she says, unhesitatingly, “ _you_ nearly got with a prostitute while I was standing in the doorway.”

“I didn’t, though.”

“You _made me picture it._ ”

A pause. “Fine, let’s say we’re even. Just write me if anything… happens, all right?”

“Of course I will, you ninny.” She sighs. “Honestly, I think I should be more worried about you.”

Hawke laughs. “Sister, I assure you, unless there’s something I really don’t know about magic there are not going to be any surprise babies happening in _my_ life for a while.”

“You know what I mean, arsehole.”

There’s a long silence, and then Hawke says, “You’re sure about all this?”

“It really is for the best,” says Bethany. “I promise.”

Anders is half into his robes when Hawke comes back into the tent and says, “Ah, you are up.” The cheer is blatantly forced, and Hawke doesn’t make eye contact as he finds his greaves and begins to strap them over his leggings and boots. “Everything’s in your pack? Since we’re leaving.” The strain behind his voice hadn’t been there when he was talking to Bethany.

“We don’t have to go right away, you know,” Anders offers, feeling repentant. “Yesterday I was just…”

“Being a prick?” says Hawke pleasantly.

“Being hasty,” says Anders, annoyed. “But they _are_ right, you know, that they’ll be safer without us here. And we can’t make any progress with people who’ve just got their heads in the sand. There are so many mages we could reach, it’s ridiculous to just stay with the… well, the first ones who didn’t try to kill us.” Hawke doesn’t say anything, so Anders, feeling somewhat desperate for a genuine response, adds, “Don’t you think so?”

“Try to kill _you_ ,” corrects Hawke, weighing a dagger in his hand contemplatively. “I thought I was just the bodyguard for this one.”

It sounds like a joke, but it still feels like Hawke has taken everything they’ve done together -- all the work, all they’d left behind -- and slapped Anders in the face with it. “That’s not true,” he says.

“Isn’t it?” says Hawke, and slips the dagger into its sheath. “Come on, you should have some breakfast before we leave.”

They don’t talk for most of the day, and when they do, it’s business-only: where they’re going, when they should eat. They’d been going northeast to begin with, to shake off any pursuers from Kirkwall, but now they’re headed back west into Nevarra, with the hopes of running into sympathetic allies from the College of Magi, or perhaps Orlais. It’s a flimsy plan, and likely more dangerous, but they don’t have much else.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this, love,” Anders says that evening after dinner, sitting in the mouth of the tent and unbuckling the metal vambraces from Hawke’s arms. He’s gotten good at this in the years since Hawke has stopped wearing cheap padded leather; helping with the armour is an easy way to feel like he’s doing something tangible to help Hawke. An easy way to turn his mind off, too. “I don’t deserve… I don’t know why you’re still here with me.” It comes out rote, familiar. Anders doesn’t know how many times he’s said something like this over the years.

Hawke looks obliquely over his shoulder at him and then down at his arm. “I really can do this myself, you know. I’ve undressed myself plenty of times.” His eyes flick back up to meet Anders’ as he smiles slightly. “I thought you’d noticed.”

The relief of getting even the tiniest amount of positive attention from Hawke again is so remarkable that Anders feels dizzy with it. “I had noticed, actually,” he manages to say, letting a grin creep onto his face. “You take forever using your left hand.” He sets the armour aside and nuzzles affectionately into the side of Hawke’s neck as Hawke delicately pulls his gauntlets off. Normally -- and when was that, _normal?_ Maybe years ago -- but _normally_ there would be a bit more flirtatious repartee, leading up to an inevitable stumble into bed together; but instead Hawke heaves a long sigh and leans back into Anders’ shoulder, and that’s okay too.

He wants to ask Hawke if he’s okay -- if _they’re_ okay -- but he doesn’t want the answer.

After a while, he just says, “Will you kiss me?”

“Hm?” says Hawke distantly.

“Kiss me,” Anders repeats. “Please.”

Hawke turns around part way and looks at Anders thoughtfully for a moment. His hair and beard are too long now, unkempt, and there are bags under his eyes and more lines on his face than Anders remembers there being. Maker only knows how Anders must look to him by now. But then Hawke leans in, bare hand gentle on the curve of Anders’ jaw, and kisses him softly.

When he pulls away he says, “I’m still pissed off at you, you know.”

“But you’re here with me,” Anders provides, pressing his forehead against Hawke’s; and Hawke smiles a bit begrudgingly and kisses him again, longer.

He smells like alcohol when Anders climbs into the tent with him later that night, though he doesn’t recall seeing Hawke drinking; when he points it out, Hawke just runs an index finger down Anders’ sternum and says, “And _you_ need to eat more, but you don’t hear me saying anything.”

“Shut up,” says Anders, laughing.

“Make me,” says Hawke; so he does.

  


* * *

  


_A letter to Varric Tethras, Kirkwall, delivered by anonymous courier, no return address:_

Varric,

After some trial and error I have decided that the answer to tolerating mage politics is whisky. Fortunately most ex-Circle mages can’t hold their alcohol to save their lives (exception: Orlesians) so there’s always plenty to go around. Taste is generally worse than the Hanged Man’s swill -- who knew _that_ was possible -- but it does the job!

Am parting from most recent group of mages (leaving this with Bethany, who knows how to get in touch with you) but will be sure to drop you a note whenever I can.

(Also I’m beginning to doubt your commitment to assassinating my fella, Varric, given how long you’ve been putting it off. Time’s a-wasting, etc.)

Best,  
H 

  


* * *

  


The thing about Anders is that no matter how much time he spent trying to explain to everyone else that he and Justice were one, it took him years to fully grasp it for himself. Not even in recognising that Justice In His Head wasn’t entirely the same as His Friend Justice The Possessed Corpse, but that he, as a person, was something essentially different from the person he’d been for the first twenty-two years of his life. He can’t even remember the last time he dreamed, _really_ dreamed, instead of waking with the sense that some other business had happened while he he was out of commission, like Justice had turned him off. Besides, it had seemed so easy at first to sort things into _Anders_ and _Justice_ : Justice wants to rip a templar’s head off, Anders wants to kiss Hawke so badly that he might literally die. The Justice bits of your life go with the glowing bits. Simple.

He’d been naïve, of course, purposely ignoring the reality of it. Being with Hawke was something he’d wanted -- still wants -- in a selfish, emotional, libidinal way, sure, but at the same time he knew that Hawke was his most powerful ally, could help him more than anyone else possibly could, and had the potential to become his most threatening enemy. Not acknowledging that wasn’t the same as not knowing it.

The thing about Anders is: he told Hawke once that there was nothing besides the cause of mages in him. He’s not sure if he’s ever told him anything equally truthful. 

  


* * *

  


“There’s supposed to be a mage camp to the southwest,” Anders says the next morning when he realises he can’t put it off any longer. He hands Hawke his map, taps a finger to draw attention to where he’d circled. “We can probably make it by noon.”

“You could have told me about this earlier,” says Hawke, though not argumentatively. “We’re practically on top of them and I thought we were just wandering blindingly.”

“Sorry,” says Anders.

“S’fine. You heard about this at the other camp?”

“That Orlesian girl said she had a friend there.” Which isn't  _entirely_ untrue.

Hawke frowns at the map. “We don’t know if they’re friendly.”

“We don’t know if they’re at all,” says Anders flatly. “That’s why I didn’t want to go out of our way. _But_ if they _are,_ then… well, we can go from there.”

Hawke looks at him, and then back down at the map. “I just don’t want to put you in unnecessary danger,” he says after a pause, and Anders has to literally bite his tongue to hold back his frustration, not sure where this uncharacteristic caution has come from. Leaving Bethany, maybe.

“It’ll be _fine_ , love,” he says, as carefully as possible. “You know it will. And it’s not like you’ve never run into ‘unnecessary danger’ before, right?”

“We weren’t _alone_ before,” says Hawke, “and you still got nearly murdered. Twice.”

 _Ah,_ thinks Anders. Hawke hadn’t seemed especially ruffled about that either time it had happened -- and _nearly_ was overstating it, besides. He’d gotten a blade in the shoulder the second time, but that was all, and he’d healed far worse before. “We’ll be fine,” he repeats firmly. “And we can both take care of ourselves. You’re really worrying too much.”

Hawke sighs. “I am, aren’t I.” He rubs a fist across his face, stands up. “Sorry.”

Anders carefully doesn’t let out a breath of relief but instead just grabs Hawke’s hand and squeezes it, the leather soft in his grasp. “Let’s get going.”

They’ve been walking a few hours in companionable near-silence when Hawke says suddenly, “What about Orlais?”

“Pardon?” says Anders.

“I was just thinking -- if things don’t work out with this group, if they’re not there or… whatever, and we’re going west _anyway_ , maybe we could go back south. You liked Orlais, didn’t you?” He turns and looks Ander straight in the eyes, uncharacteristically earnest. “You seemed… better, when we were there, you know? Happier.”

“Really? I mostly just remember hating the wildlife,” says Anders, though he’s touched at Hawke’s attention. “Orlais is probably as dangerous for us as the rest of Thedas right now, love. _And_ it’ll be getting cold this time of year.”

Hawke grins at him. “What kind of Fereldan are you, complaining about the cold?”

“The kind who didn’t get out much,” says Anders. “I just mean, it wouldn’t be the same as last time.”

“No, but it might still be worth a shot. Right?” And he looks so _sincere_ , so hopeful, that it makes Anders think that -- maybe it would be better, the two of them in Orlais. Maybe they’d be less noticeable, be able to take on different identities and perhaps even settle somewhere together, work with Orlesian mages that way instead of wandering the countryside.

A ridiculous thing to imagine.

Before he can say anything more they’re interrupted by the low growl of Hawke’s mabari, who is belly-low to the ground with his lips pulled back and ears pointing straight forward, snarling at some unseen presence. Hawke tenses too, following the dog line of sight with his eyes -- though all that’s visible from here is the thick undergrowth -- and then soundlessly pulls his daggers from their sheaths.

“Cover me,” he says to Anders, barely audible. They creep forward like that, Anders grasping his staff in front of him and doing his best to match Hawke’s nearly soundless steps, until they come to an overhanging, and look down. There’s a drop of maybe a few feet, and then the camp: templars, maybe half a dozen of them visible milling around or sitting by the fire. There’s no more than a handful of tents in the clearing. Anders had been expecting more of them, from what information he’d been given, but it’s better than nothing. Next to him, Hawke hisses a curse and starts to back away, a hand on his dog’s collar.

Anders aims.

He hits the nearest unhelmeted templar straight in the face with a bolt of ice, and it freezes, an unexpected boon - the templar’s young and untrained, or maybe simply unprepared, and doesn’t have any wards up. The clearing is suddenly full of shouts and the clash of metal as swords and shields are hastily wielded. As Anders moves forward he glances once more to his right and meets Hawke’s gaze. His expression is miles from what it had been minutes ago, startled and harsh. And then just as the templars see them he’s off, weapons drawn, like Anders has seen a thousand times, a lethal, inhumanly fast whirlwind with an all-muscle wardog at his heels.

Even with only the two of them up against the templars and their wards, the fight ends as quickly as it starts. Anders falls easily back into pattern with Hawke, hitting the templars with spells just as their attentions are turned towards Hawke, who in turn catches the ones who start heading towards Anders. They end with eleven bodies in all, four out of armour; a small bushfire that Anders freezes out quickly; and no wounds beyond the superficial on their end, as far as Anders can tell. More than a satisfying win.

He approaches Hawke where he stands in the middle of the camp, bloody and breathing deep, and says, unable to keep from grinning, “Well done. Nothing injured?”

Hawke doesn’t answer for a moment. “You knew this wasn’t a mage camp,” he says, finally. It isn’t a question.

“Well,” says Anders.

“Go ahead,” says Hawke. He’s looking at the corpses, not Anders. “Tell me why you couldn’t tell me the truth _this_ time. These templars in particular just _really_ needed to die, didn’t they?”

“They’re _templars_ , love,” says Anders. “I don’t know why you’re so upset-”

“I think you _do_ , or you wouldn’t have lied to me.”

And what’s done is done, so Anders tells him: Mireille, the Orlesian at the mage camp, had nearly run into this group, had lurked around the outskirts stealing scraps to survive and eavesdropping; had learned that they were a rebel group training new recruits, now that the Circle was gone. Twenty or thirty of them, he’d been told. Replenishing the numbers.

“They were kids,” Hawke says, when Anders is done. “They didn’t even attack us first.”

“They would have,” says Anders, and it feels ridiculous that he has to spell this out after all they’d been through. “They weren’t learning to be templars out of the _goodness of their hearts_ , Hawke-”

“No, maybe they were learning so they could keep their families safe-”

“They were _templars_ ,” Anders repeats. “Maker’s breath, why is this one so bad? You’ve killed for less! Can you even count how many people you’ve killed just for coin? Would that be better, if you got paid? You’ve usually looted the bodies already, by this point--” and he kicks a dropped coin purse in Hawke’s direction, pointedly.

Hawke stares down at it, and then audibly takes a deep breath. “Anders-”

“Stop trying to end arguments by just _saying my name like that_ -”

“Anders, _shut up_ ,” Hawke snarls, finally turning to face him. “This isn’t one of Varric’s stupid stories, we can’t just go around killing people like this. We don’t even know if all of them _were_ templars! Half of them weren’t in armour!”

“So what? They were here!” says Anders, not sure what Hawke doesn’t get about this; and ‘half’ is a significant exaggeration, besides. He adds, sourly, “I don’t remember you having all these _qualms_ in Kirkwall.”

Hawke stares at him for what feels like a long time, and Anders can’t read the expression behind his eyes. Then Hawke wipes his face with a hand, leaving a long smear of someone else’s blood across his cheek, and says, half-laughing to himself, “I can’t do this.” He turns, gathers up his pack again, ignoring the coin purse at his feet, and his voice is suddenly brisk and cold again. “I’m going.”

“What?” says Anders, startled. “What do I- you _can’t_ -”

“I most certainly can,” says Hawke. “Stay here. You have the whole camp to yourself, after all.” And with that he’s gone, back into the woods, dog at his heels.

Anders looks around the camp. The body with the coin purse is, he realises, that first templar he’d hit; half his head is still frozen, the exposed skin around it blistered grotesquely. There’s a rabbit still cooking over the campfire.

He sits down. 

  


* * *

  


Once, in Kinloch Hold, not long after they’d met, Karl said to him, “What would you do, if you weren’t here?”

Anders had looked up at him from the text he’d been doodling in. “Like, what would I do if I were better at escaping?” he said, glancing around. It was late enough that evening that the library was sparsely populated; only a handful of apprentices were within potential earshot, and they all seemed to be frantically studying for some evaluation or another.

“No,” said Karl, leaning forward. “I mean, if you’d never had to come here.”

Anders grimaced exaggeratedly. He did his best to avoid thinking of that -- his life before, what it might have become -- never mind _talking_ about it, and Karl knew it. “Why does that matter? It’s not going to happen.”

“Fine,” said Karl, “what about if the Circle is just… abolished, tomorrow. We’re all free to go. What will you do?”

Anders thought about it. “Go get shitfaced, probably,” he said, though he’d had one ale in his life, and it had been disgusting. “Wear trousers again.”

“And that’s it?”

Anders shrugged. “Are you coming with me, in this scenario?”

Karl nudged him lightly under the table with a foot. “Of course I am.”

“Okay. We… we go to Denerim, get shitfaced, and then get a room at a tavern somewhere.” He briefly relished the thought of having _time_ and _privacy_ for a change, but then thought about it a bit more and added, “With all the coin we don’t have.”

“I bet you could get a job doing… farm… things,” said Karl, and Anders snorted, fondly.

“You’ve never been on a farm in your life, have you,” he said. “Why are you asking this?”

Karl had shrugged, but he was looking at Anders with a surprisingly urgent expression. “I think it could happen.” Anders snorted again, but Karl continued: “Not _tomorrow_ , obviously, but - there are people working for it, all across southern Thedas. I’d like to work for it, myself.”

“From in here?” said Anders, skeptical.

“There are people here with connections, you know. It’s not all piety and Loyalists.” The second part was true enough -- Karl’s Libertarian friends were notorious for circulating the sort of literature that you had to hide under your mattress, and hardly any of it was pornography -- but the idea of any of them having _connections_ seemed somewhat ludicrous. Maybe there was the occasional liaison with a Chantry sister, or whatever, but that hardly meant anything significant. “Anyway,” Karl continued, more cheerfully, “I half expected you to say you’d ditch me for the first woman who’d have you.”

“I’d never,” Anders protested, feeling slightly stung.

Karl laughed. “I’m just teasing you, love.”

“So your big plan,” Anders said, leaning back in his chair, “is that your _connections_ miraculously abolish the Circle of Magi and then I keep us afloat with my incredible ability to milk a cow.”

“It’s a start,” said Karl, giving him that grin that always made Anders’ stomach twist with excitement; but Anders thought about it, closed his book, and leaned forward seriously.

“You should just leave with me,” he said, even quieter than before. “I bet we could do it. You know I know how to get out of here, and with your help…”

But Karl was shaking his head. “I need to do more than that. I want everyone to be free, not just us.” He paused, then added, “You think that sounds stupid.”

“I think it’s… admirable,” said Anders, slowly. “I just don’t know if it could happen.” 

  


* * *

  


In Amaranthine, Justice said: _You have seen oppression and are now free. You must act to free those who remain oppressed._

In Kirkwall, Isabela said: _You want to free the mages. Let’s say you do, but to get there, you kill a bunch of innocent people. What about them? Don’t they then deserve justice?_

  


* * *

  


He doesn’t know how long he stays there, alone in the templar camp. He can’t stop running the conversation with Hawke over in his head; and he can’t bear that, doesn’t want to have to, so to have something to do Anders does a loop of the camp, checking for valuables; gathers coin and weapons from the bodies, sets the latter aside for Hawke to go through when he gets back, cremates the corpses in a foul-smelling pile at one of the fire pits. It’s a warm autumn day but even at the fire he feels cold. For a while he starts at every sound in the woods, expecting Hawke to come back; but it’s never anything more than birds or squirrels, and after what must be at least a few hours he drifts into a fitful sleep, still half-sitting by the makeshift pyre.

He’s jolted fully awake by a sound he can’t quite place. The sunlight has turned dim, the fire died down to cinders, and Anders squints through the dusk. “Hawke?”

There’s a long silence, but it feels different from before, like someone’s _listening_ ; and Anders scrambles to his feet feeling suddenly furious. “Hawke, this isn’t funny,” he calls out, looking around. But the silence drags on, and Anders’ stomach sinks as it fully occurs to him, for the first time since Hawke stormed off, that maybe he really did just _leave_ , and Anders is finally alone for good.

A twig cracks behind him, and Anders half-turns before something heavy and blunt connects with his ribs and he’s knocked down and then pinned by the weight of a body on his chest. He gasps for breath, struggles uselessly, looks up. It’s a girl, small and filthy, wielding a templar’s shield that looks to be half her size and a cheap iron longsword. It’s a wonder she’s even heavy enough to hold Anders down like this, he thinks, distantly.

“You bastard,” she says, crouched over him, and Anders realises, like he’d been expecting it, that she’s crying. “You _fucking_ bastard, you killed my sister, you _fuck_.”

His staff is only a few yards away, propped up against a tree. He could knock her off him without it.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” the girl says, her voice rising hysterically even as she holds the edge of her sword, shaking, inches from his throat. “You killed them, you killed everyone-”

Anders thinks, from miles away, about justice, and Kirkwall, and watches the tears streaking a clear path down the girl’s unwashed face, and doesn’t move.

The knife comes from nowhere and slices deep across her neck, swift and sure. The girl gasps and then gurgles, sickeningly, and drops the sword onto his chest as she clutches at her throat, blood spurting rhythmically through her fingers onto both of them, warm and viscous onto Anders’ face. For what feels like an aeon they just stare at each other, her brown eyes wide with shock and fear as they start to dim; and then she’s been wrenched off him, and Anders looks up at Hawke.

“Are you okay?” says Hawke, finally.

“I thought you left,” says Anders.

“I came _back_ ,” says Hawke, sounding slightly exasperated. “Maker’s breath, Anders, what the hell were you doing? She was going to kill you, for fuck’s sake!”

Anders doesn’t know what to say to that. The girl’s body next to him is fully still, now.

After a while, Hawke pulls him to his feet, spits on a handkerchief and wipes briskly at Anders’ face. Anders tolerates the oddly maternal gesture; and then he says, “Why?”

“Why what?” says Hawke, brusquely.

“Why didn’t you let her kill me?” he says. His voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.

Hawke stops moving for a moment. Then he wipes the cloth once last time across Anders’ forehead, looks down at the bloody fabric with an expression of vague disgust, and shoves it into a pocket. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“It would have solved a lot of your problems,” says Anders, and smiles to himself, humourlessly. “I bet Bethany’s group would take you back. It wasn’t _you_ they needed rid of, after all.”

“Anders…”

“I mean it,” he says. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” says Hawke, sounding frustrated now. “Stop being daft. We should get going, who knows who else is hanging around.”

“Do you still love me?” Anders asks instead, insistent. His mouth feels dry, and in another life he never would have started this, never even dared; but he needs an answer, needs _something_ to go on.

Hawke barks out a laugh, joyless and startlingly loud. “You can be _such_ a _shit_ sometimes, did you know that?”

“I know,” says Anders, quite honestly.

That makes Hawke laugh again, more genuinely this time. “Maker,” he says. “Of course you do.” He reaches out and squeezes Anders’ hand in his, and says, “Come on, let’s just get out of here.”

And Anders squeezes back, and listens to the silence hanging between them, and lets Hawke lead him back into the woods.

  


* * *

  


_I’ve got my finger on the trigger_  
_and tonight faith just ain’t enough_  
_when I look inside my heart_  
_there’s just devils and[ dust ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cG8ZQkeZvzc)_

**Author's Note:**

> Don't date abominations, kids.
> 
> Many thanks to offline and twitter friends for their support while I stressed over this for way too friggin long, and especially to the fabulous [cephied_variable](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephied_Variable/pseuds/Cephied_Variable), as without her feedback and constant encouragement there is no way this would have gotten finished. Thanks for making me play this life-ruining game in the first place.


End file.
